


The Setting Sun of Thanalan

by ffelweed



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), also the start may be slow-- rather like arr-- so i hope y'all can bear w me!, basically just my wol's way thru the msq, this is probably gonna get mad sad tho and the ratings will likely change throughout, we gonna do our best so i hope you all have fun with my boy b'nhea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffelweed/pseuds/ffelweed
Summary: The sun is touching the mountains in the distance, warm light arching over their rounded peaks, as B'nhea keeps eye over the Gate of the Sultana. From here, he can almost see Scorpion Crossing. Some small part of him is tempted, ever so slightly, to abandon his position for a drink in the tavern, but he squashes that instinct before it can even fully form into a complete thought.Or: B'nhea Tyatu's travels through Eorzea and beyond, culminating in existential crisis and contemplation on the point of existence, most probably. Who knows, because I sure don't!
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, we might have some other relationships eventually we just dont know
Kudos: 3





	The Setting Sun of Thanalan

The sun is touching the mountains in the distance, warm light arching over their rounded peaks, as B'nhea keeps eye over the Gate of the Sultana. From here, he can almost see Scorpion Crossing. Some small part of him is tempted, ever so slightly, to abandon his position for a drink in the tavern, but he squashes that instinct before it can even fully form into a complete thought. Besides, the setting of the sun aligns with the end of his shift. 

He smiles, his long lion-like tail swaying slowly back and forth behind him. It's weighed down only slightly by some small plates of armour, the silver hue dyed orange from the dying light. The colour almost matches the red-orange of his hair and fur. The end of this shift means many things— not just his bed, but an end to guarding the Gate in general. The illness plaguing the Brass Blades in the area had nearly run its course, most of the Blades have recovered enough to stand guard again, and B'nhea Tyatu, Flame Sergeant Third Class, is ready to return to more interesting duties. 

“Well, looks like our relief arrived.” He's still smiling, and the miqo’te stretches and gives a brisk wave down the road. The relief— two lalafells, adorned in Blades’ gear— is moving a bit slower than usual, but he supposes he can't fault them for that. Not if they and the rest of the Blades have been as sick as his superiors advised. 

“Thank the fuckin’ gods,” his companion mumbles, just loud enough that B'nhea can hear. It's not a slight, he knows— Wilting Sun has always been on the more irritable side, and the private hadn't expected to be roped into guard duty with a sergeant. Especially not for near a week’s worth of shifts. “Dunno how the fuck they do it. Ain't nothing worse than standing on your feet watchin’ dust blow.” 

B'nhea ducks his head, trying to hide the small laugh that escapes from between his lips. Wilting Sun isn't wrong, exactly, but the Seeker doesn't hold the same distaste for guard duty the private does. It's simple work, certainly, but there's also far less at stake with it. It's relaxing, almost. 

“All clear?”

He's not sure which lalafell spoke, but he nods regardless. “All clear. The rest of the Blades recovering well?”

“Mhmm. Only got Dorian and Mimilana sick, still. We’ll be able to cover the Gates, no worry.”

“Good, good.”

The trip back to the Hall of the Flames is uneventful— much like the rest of the week, in fact. It has been a nice respite for the Flame Sergeant, a time away from mounds of paperwork and the endless training he is expected not only to provide, but to undertake as well. Still, B’nhea enjoys taking in some of the sights of the city that’s been his home for his entire life. Not that there are many sights between the Gate of the Sultana and the Hall of Flames. It’s really only the pugilist’s guild, with a few small shops the Seeker has never been inside lining the rest of the road. There’s not enough time in the walk to really let his mind wander, so B’nhea instead uses the time to stretch out all the kinks in his back. Though he would never say it aloud, Wilting Sun is right; there’s nothing worse than watching dust blow. At least the roegadyn is as appreciative of their silence as the Seeker is. During their entire walk back, not a word is spoken. 

The last knot in his back cracks just as the two step into the open-air Hall of Flames, passing under the large pillars supporting the stone awning in tandem. B’nhea gives his companion the smallest smile, a dip of his head in acknowledgement as they part. Wilting Sun’s duties are done for the night; B’nhea still has some small amount of paperwork to complete before he can retire as well. Still, the work doesn’t take him long, and less than an hour after entering the Hall he’s making his way out of it, stomach growling. There’s a small food stall with his name on it, and the gil in his pocket is too heavy anyway. Or, that’s the excuse the miqo’te gives himself. 

But, on his way towards the Hustings Strip, a flash of void-black hair catches his attention. It’s paired with blue-gray skin and a pair of nails B’nhea would recognize anywhere, even if she hadn’t been wearing a dress almost exactly the same as the day they’d both disappeared. His breath catches in his throat, and before he can think the action through he’s moving, following her deeper into the city. He _knows_ that flowing stride, knows it as well as he knows the exercises he does every morning. He doesn’t see B’raemha with her, but the two had never been far apart. And B’nhea would bet his life that the woman he was following was Nena Neirmhuyo. 

It’s been years since he’s seen her, true, but he’s filled with such a certainty that he cannot help but feel the fact deep in his stomach. She looks a bit different than she did before-- her hair is a bit longer, a bit darker-- but there’s more the same than there is that’s changed. There’s a staff on her back, the dark wood tipped with a bright purple gem that lets him know she hasn’t abandoned thaumaturgey in the years since they’ve last been together. She still wears the same dark colours she did while training in the ossuary, though she’s traded her traditional hooded robes for a black dress with puffed sleeves and lace at the edges. And she still moves more quickly through a crowd than a woman of her height and build has any right to. 

B’nhea follows her without truly being aware of where they’re headed. He knows this city as well as anyone could, he tells himself, and no matter where she goes he won’t be lost. It won’t be long before he manages to catch up with her, and then he can ask where she and B’raemha went all those years ago, why there’s never been even a single letter from his twin sister, why-- 

They turn a corner in tandem, B’nhea only a couple feet behind the woman he is certain is his childhood friend, and yet when he rounds the wall she is gone. The alleyway itself is entirely empty, only a small scrap of paper blowing in the breeze against the cobblestone. His lips twitch downwards, but the miqo’te doesn’t allow himself to frown. He should’ve known better. Nena has always been more perceptive than she lets on. He sighs, running a hand through his hair that catches slightly on his braid. All these years, and this is the closest he’s ever been. And the chance, quick as it came, has already passed. 

The scrap of paper flutters along the road again, and a glimpse of familiar handwriting is enough to make B’nhea lean down in his heavy armour to grab it. The ink is long-dried, certainly not something written only moments ago, but the script is the same that Nena meticulously mastered when they were all only thirteen. 

_Dearest B’nhea,  
We miss you. We’ll explain everything, if you only come to the church out in Eastern Thanalan. The one near Drybone-- it’s safe there. Tomorrow, as the sun rises. We’ll wait for you. _

The note is as frustratingly succinct as Nena has always been, and B’nhea clutches it in his grasp for a moment. He can feel his knuckles tighten to near-bruising, can feel the strain on his already tired body as adrenaline begins its work. He’s so close. So impossibly close. There are less than twelve hours until the dawn, and his sister-- his twin-- awaits. 

Yet there are still practicalities he must think of, his mind immediately interjects. Years of military lifestyle remind him of his duties, the expectations his superiors have for him. At dawn he is meant to be heading a training exercise for a crop of new recruits, helping to mold them into proper members of the Flames as he himself was once molded. It is the same thing he has done every weekday for years, now, aside from outliers such as the last week. The recruits are his responsibility, his job, and yet the idea of having to be with these young people first thing in the morning instead of seeing B’raemha fills him with dread. No, that won’t work. 

B’nhea clutches Nena’s note to his chest for a moment longer before tucking it into a pouch on his waist. No, training recruits will certainly not be an option tomorrow morning. He runs his hand through his hair again, letting out a quiet sigh, and trudges his heavy plate boots back to his rooms within the Flames’ barracks. There will be no food stalls tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> this chapter is honestly probably a bit shorter than most future ones will be, but this seemed the best place to end it! hope y'all enjoyed this, i ain't written anything that ive posted publicly in a good minute.


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